


Anarchy?

by Bluebellstar



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 23:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebellstar/pseuds/Bluebellstar
Summary: Not raised by wolves in Scotland, but a pub brawl in Lanarkshire. That's when Malcolm met Jamie.
Relationships: Jamie MacDonald/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Anarchy?

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Malcolm/Jamie fic that wouldn't let me sleep.
> 
> This is my headcanon about how those two first met.
> 
> I don't know what's with the title. It makes sense to me, but I'm sleep deprived.

Malcolm would preface everything that follows by saying he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. He was 21, his impulse control was not as good as it would be in the future. And, to be fucking frank, if he had to hear Going Underground one more time, he was going to remove someone's bollocks with a rusty fucking spade. He leant against the back wall of the pub, hair a chaotic mess around his head, breathing in the hundreds of cigarettes that lingered in the air. Oh, he would be the first to admit that he was getting some, shall we say, odd looks. Walking into a punk pub in a Labour Party t-shirt wasn't exactly the smart thing to do, but at this stage of his life, he was still spoiling for a fight. It had been a fucking crap day bookending a fucking crap week, and he was fed up. Honestly, the drunken idiot taking exception at his attire was merely the outlet he was looking for. One minute, he was aware of the increasing danger of his circumstances, the next he was reeling from a punch in the face. His tongue flickered out onto his lip, tasting blood. Being, naturally, a bastard of sound judgement and excellent tactical thinking, Malcolm 'borrowed' the pint glass from the nearest angry-looking punk, and smashed it over the head of his assaulter. "Twat" he muttered, dusting his hands of the glass fragments. Unfortunately, the bloke whose beer he'd borrowed (spiky purple hair, tats) took exception at Malcolm's expedience. He threw a table at Tats, watching in a sort of mute horror as a wee bloke sprang up out of fucking nowhere, bright blue eyes crazed and blazing, and laid out some other bloke he seemed to have arbitrarily decided deserved to be decked. No matter how hard he tried, Malcolm never could recall what happened immediately after that. What he knew for sure was that he had seen less violence at Celtic/Rangers matches, and less bloody mayhem. He loved his people; they were fucking crazy cunts. Especially that diminutive psycho running around twatting bastards with a pool cue. Malcolm lost sight of that particular nutjob, busy with a bespectacled halfwit trying to talk him out of violence. Who in their right mind would let some pervert-in-training escape the seminary for a punk pub? Malcolm punched him in the balls just to shut him up. Holier than thou cunt.

In the middle of seeing if it was actually possible to twist someone's scrotum off their body, a sharp whistle ripped shrilly through the air. "Well, well; what do we have here?" Oh fuck, Malcolm was fucked. Royally, creatively, totally fisted. Someone had called the fucking Sweeney. Grey eyes flicked about, searching for an exit, but he found nothing. Fortunately, God was smiling on him, and the psycho with the pool cue leapt up, eyes alive with savage glee. Clearly thinking Malcolm distracted enough to allow escape, scrotum twist tried to wriggle out of Malcolm's hold. Malcolm viciously dug his fingers in, the resultant howl obliterating the first half of Pool Cue's rant.  
"-ye tiny-cocked Thatcherist twat!" The psychopath had just poured gasoline on the fucking fire. Malcolm did the only thing that came to mind; he chucked scroteless at the member of the Lanarkshire constabulary, buying enough time for the brawl to start again. Fucking predictable his countrymen. And yet, not all of them.

From out of fucking nowhere, the lunatic who'd provoked the situation grabbed his hand and hauled him out back. Tiny-cock yelled for them to come back, but Malcolm was too busy legging it out into the alley and onto the streets of wherever the fuck he was to care. They stopped, five maybe ten minutes later, Malcolm slumped against the nearest wall, wheezing until his breath came back. "Well that was fucking fun."  
"Ye are one crazy fuckin' cunt" the midget psychopath announced, grinning like a feral wolf. "What the fuck were ye doin' walkin' intae the pub wearin' that? Did ye want tae start a fight?" Malcolm took immediate offence, grasping the beer-and-blood-stained remnants of his companion's torn denim jacket. Very fucking stylish.  
"Listen, you tiny fuckin' terrier, I had the situation perfectly under fuckin' control until ye called that copper a-"  
"Tiny-cocked Thatcherist twat, aye" his fellow fugitive agreed, smiling beautifically. The psycho actually believed he'd done good. To be fair, the insult had the dual advantage of being both highly fucking offensive and entirely true. Fucked if Malcolm would admit it, but the psycho was his type to a T; fucking handsome, fucking psychotic, and filled with the righteousness of the truly fucking stubborn. If he didn't realise it then, he certainly did later; he was fucked. "Crazy bastard like ye has tae have a name worth knowing." Malcolm raised an eyebrow at the nosy bastard.  
"Malcolm Tucker. I'm gonnae run the fuckin' country."  
"Oh aye?" His companion sounded intrigued. "Jamie MacDonald. You're gonnae need a crazy cunt like me tae help ye." Drunk on adrenaline and cheap whiskey, Malcolm couldn't deny the logic in that. Very fucking sound it was.  
"Aye" he agreed, reaching out a hand. "I reckon I just might." Jamie grinned again, every bit as terrifying as the first, and shook on it.

And that, as they say, was the start of a beautiful friendship... And a lot more.

He wouldn't find out that Jamie was escaping from the seminary until later, but it never fucking mattered. Their fate was sealed the minute Jamie called the copper a Thatcherist twat.

Malcolm stood in the doorway at DoSAC, watching contentedly as Jamie bollocked the incompetent staff. He couldn't believe it had been that long. Twenty-five years, more of a commitment than most people make in their lifetimes. He folded his arms, enjoying the sight of Jamie delivering his creative threats, demonstrating his displeasure on a innocently bystanding printer (the fax machine was too far away). Ollie, the useless Oxbridge twat, looked seconds away from wetting himself, Robyn looked as though she already had. Even Nicola's unimpressed mother look was failing to hide a shade of fear at Jamie unleashed. Fucking gorgeous bastard. "Jamie!" His psycho glanced over, every bit as glorious as when they had met. He didn't say another word, he didn't have to. The slight raise of his eyebrows told Jamie to wrap it up, while the twinkling of his eyes told Jamie he had effortlessly pulled. Jamie's eyes danced, a brilliant grin splitting his face (and there went Ollie's bladder control).  
"Fuck aye, Malc!" Malcolm smirked, shaking his head at the serendipity. Twenty-five years of partnership, all because of a pub brawl in Motherwell. Life was fucking weird. It was only fitting that love was anarchy. Worth it though.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading


End file.
